Bunburry--Murder at the Mousetrap Read online

  Marge pursed her lips. “Takes after her great-aunt, apparently. I have known this woman all my life, I have shared a home with her for five years, and I never before realised what a con-artist she was. Now everybody thinks she and William were an item.”

  “All in a good cause, dear,” said Liz equably. “I’m so pleased that there’s no doubt it was Emma’s success, and Sergeant Wilson can’t claim the credit.”

  Marge swirled the G&T around in her glass. “You do appreciate we had not a shred of evidence? If Anthony hadn’t made a full confession, there would have been nothing anyone could have done. You can’t convict someone for trying to run out of a room.”

  “Poor Anthony,” sighed Liz.

  “How can you say that?” exploded Marge. “He murdered two people.”

  “Well, not ex- ” began Liz and then lapsed into silence.

  Alfie sided more with her than with Marge. He couldn’t begin to condone William’s murder, but he still felt some fleeting sympathy for Anthony. At the police station, the florist had refused legal representation, and made a full statement. He had been bullied by his cousin since they went to primary school together and, as Alfie knew from Betty, Fry had continued to mock and belittle him in adult life. Anthony’s resentment had grown and festered, and being deprived of his role in The Mousetrap had incensed him. When he came out of the theatre and saw Fry teetering on the ladder, he decided to kick it to give him a fright. Fry’s silk scarf had become entangled with a hook on the wall, and as the ladder toppled, he lost his balance and broke his neck.

  It was, Alfie thought to himself, an accident rather than a deliberate act, and Anthony didn’t deserve to be branded a murderer for it. And then he thought of Charlie Tennison careering down the narrow lanes in his high-powered sports car, and he felt less understanding.

  Anthony had been on his way to visit Rose at the nursing home when he bumped into William Marlowe wandering along a corridor. William now remembered fully what he had seen, but Anthony had hustled him back to his room, and smothered him with a pillow to prevent the truth being revealed.

  “Why didn’t he run away after that?” asked Marge. “Why did he hang around the nursing home until the police came?”

  “Anthony was scarcely a natural-born killer,” said Liz. “Maybe he ran to Rose because being with his grandmother made him feel that none of it had happened. And people knew he was in the home – running out would have been the action of a guilty man, but he was able to pretend he had been with Rose the whole time.”

  Marge nodded. “That’s true. He certainly didn’t emerge as suspect number one when Sergeant Wilson found him in Rose’s room. Rose was livid when the sergeant began questioning him, and if you ask me, the sergeant was too distracted by Rose’s agitation to notice whether Anthony was even more agitated.”

  “I wonder,” Alfie said to Liz, “if the crimes might have been solved a whole lot faster if Emma had been doing the interviewing at the nursing home rather than being relegated to doorkeeper.”

  “I know I’m biased, but I’ve been wondering the same thing,” said Liz.

  “So you’re impressed by Emma?” said Marge rather too eagerly.

  He didn’t want to give them false hope of a romance that was never going to happen, but he wasn’t going to refuse to give Emma her due.

  “Yes,” he said, “very,” and he noted the look of complicity between the ladies. “I have to say, I never imagined that life in Bunburry would be this exciting. Two murders within a week.”

  “You just came at the right time. It’s not usually quite so exciting,” admitted Liz.

  “I should hope not,” said Marge. “If we had a murder a week, the entire population of Bunburry would be wiped out in less than four years.”

  Liz fetched the gin bottle and topped up their glasses. “Now we can relax for a while.”

  Marge gave a sudden squawk. “No, we can’t – we’ve got a serious problem.”

  Alfie and Liz looked at her inquiringly.

  “Anthony – we’ve lost Anthony. Don’t you see, we’re still one person short for The Mousetrap.”

  “Oh dear,” said Liz. “What a pity. So we’re going to have to cancel after all.”

  “Unless,” said Marge. “Alfie – ?”

  “No,” said Alfie.

  “You don’t even know what I’m going to say yet.”

  “I don’t,” said Alfie. “But I know I’m not going to like it.”

  “But it’s the perfect solution. You’re an experienced actor, after all. You’ll have no problem taking both parts.”

  “No,” said Alfie. “No. It’s an utter impossibility. I’m not at all happy about directing and acting. I certainly can’t take on two parts.”

  “But it’s the perfect solution,” said Liz. “Well done, Marge.”

  “You might have to do some quick costume changes,” said Marge. “I could help with that.”

  “You do realise that the two characters can be on stage at the same time?” said Alfie.

  Liz waved a dismissive hand. “We can tweak the script a little.”

  “Tweak the script?” echoed Alfie in disbelief. “We can’t tweak the script.”

  “Come on now, Alfie,” said Marge, raising her glass to him. “We’ve just solved a murder. We can do anything.”

  END

  Next episode

  In “A Murderous Ride,” the second Bunburry book, Alfie discovers that he has not only inherited a cottage from his late Aunt Augusta but also a 1950s Jaguar. He is dismayed: for reasons of his own, he no longer drives. Aunt Augusta’s best friends, Liz and Marge, persuade him to get behind the wheel again - but that’s just the start of his troubles.

  Alfie discovers it’s a seriously bad idea to get on the wrong side of the local police sergeant. Especially when he finds himself at a murder scene and the sergeant decides Alfie’s the murderer. There’s only one thing to be done. Alfie has to track down the real murderer himself - which will force him to drive as he’s never driven before.

  A Murderous Ride

  BUNBURRY – A Cosy Mystery Series

  by Helena Marchmont

  What did you think?

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  CHERRINGHAM –

  A COSY CRIME SERIES

  Matthew Costello

  Neil Richards

  The Gentleman Vanishes

  1. The Great Cotswolds Steam Railway

  Reg Syms reached into the narrow pocket of his waistcoat, and slid out his Elgin, a classic timepiece whose impractical size made it all the more attractive – and appropriate – for a proper “stationmaster”.

  Just at that moment, the side door to his office – his “domain” as he liked to call it – opened, and in walked, well … the new person.

  A trainee who had jumped all the hurdles and passed through all the hoops that the all-volunteer organisation of steam engine enthusiasts put in the way of anyone wanting to join them; weeding out the merely idle and curious.

  No, working for this very special (albeit short) train line, a genuine relic of a century ago, required knowledge, passion, dedication and – to be sure, for a train line – punctuality.

  And, as Reg kept his eyes on his timepiece, showing 8:30 am precisely, he heard the new person say, “Good morning, Mr Syms.”

  Reg looked up. A bit of an inspection as he looked over Tim Waite’s garb: jacket, tie, waistcoat – the standard uniform – all in order, neatly folded handkerchief, bright red of course, in jacket pocket.

  “On time. Good, good,” he said. “First run of the day – must be on our mettle.”

  And Reg leaned forward to look out of the ticket window at the
leaden sky above the historic station buildings.

  “Rather grey and gloomy today. It’ll be busy nevertheless, and you’ll have plenty to attend to,” the next part he totally loved saying, “on the Great Cotswolds Steam Railway. Now – let’s to it!”

  And Reg Syms began busying himself with, well, truth be told, mostly waiting for customers, as Tim Waite looked on.

  *

  While his trainee watched, “shadowing” as the younger man referred to it, Reg greeted customers old and new alike, issuing receipts and handing stiff cardboard tickets through the little hole in the glass.

  Proper customer service!

  Eventually the first rush for tickets ended and – as the passengers scurried off down the platform, past the waiting carriages, to watch the locomotive building up steam – Reg turned back to the new trainee.

  Though new to the railway, Waite was no young man: mid-forties, and probably quite eager to escape the humdrum of home, wife and kids for this … adventure.

  Who wouldn’t?

  “Note well, Mr Waite, the smile, the greeting – all so important.” He raised a finger in the air. “Think of this little office, the platform here, the great locomotive sitting out there – the whole experience – as a wonderful time machine. We take people back to a completely different time. I dare say, a better time!”

  Waite nodded. “I’ll be sure to—” he started to say.

  But just then Reg heard a familiar sound. The throaty roar of a Mercedes engine.

  And he knew exactly who that would be.

  Bernard Mandeville – his arrival as reliable as this antiquated line’s timetable.

  Wouldn’t be a Sunday morning without Mr Mandeville stepping up to the window, buying a return. “Just one please,” he’d say in that gentle sing-song voice of his, purchasing the ticket as if this wasn’t the hundredth time he had done so.

  And Reg’s response – always the same as well: the smile and a tip of the hat, as if welcoming someone to the great experience for the very first time.

  The trainee stood right at Reg’s shoulder as the elderly Mr Mandeville walked slowly along the platform to the ticket office window.

  “One of our absolute best and most loyal passengers,” said Reg, “so, do pay attention now.”

  And he waited for Bernard Mandeville, none too fleet of foot these days, or fleet of anything, as he made his way to the Cherringham Junction ticket office.

  *

  “Good morning, Reg,” Bernard said.

  The familiarity in this case – quite appropriate.

  At least … on the customer’s side.

  “Mr Mandeville – so very good to see you.”

  As if it was a surprise. An unexpected pleasure.

  Bernard was dressed, as ever, in perfect sync with the whole heritage railway experience: long tweed coat, classic grouse hat, herringbone three-piece suit, and even a carnation in his boutonniere. As if the train might deposit him in Paris instead of the station at Cheltenham Racecourse – a mere twenty-five miles away.

  The great locomotive powerful but – by today’s dizzying standards – chugging its way ever so slowly.

  Bernard ordered his ticket, as if following a carefully drawn script.

  “Ah yes,” Reg said. “One return to Cheltenham. Here we are.”

  And as Bernard dug out his wallet to extract a twenty-pound note, as usual, Reg could see behind him …

  Perhaps his son, Reg imagined?

  He never knew which one of Bernard’s relatives – there appeared to be three – would show up to drive the man to the station, and wait for his return.

  Today, this one was smoking a cigarette, looking a tad impatient, with Reg thinking: He’d better not even dream of tossing that onto the platform.

  “Ah – here we are then,” Bernard said, passing the crisp note. “These new notes, so slippery! Plastic or something, hmm? More signs of the times. Good British money turned into cellophane!”

  Reg slid Bernard the little cardboard ticket, and then his change.

  “Enjoy your trip, Mr Mandeville,” he offered.

  To which Bernard said, “Always do, Reg, always do.”

  And then the man turned and slowly made his way to the first-class carriage where his relative waited at an open door. Reg watched as the young man supported Mr Mandeville and helped him climb the step into the carriage.

  No real classes on the train – one could sit absolutely anywhere – but Reg imagined Bernard Mandeville would always be most at home in the warm and worn confines of the once-pricey and glamorous first-class compartment.

  And when he boarded, Reg looked on until he spotted him in a compartment, seated close to the window, facing forward. His relative folding a blanket over the old man’s legs.

  Tim was certainly curious.

  “So, that chap, Bernard—”

  “Mr Mandeville.”

  “—takes the train every Sunday, to Cheltenham Racecourse and back?”

  “Like clockwork. Hasn’t missed a Sunday since the operation began running.”

  “Amazing. He must love the train!”

  “Oh, yes. In fact, if it wasn’t for his various ailments, I imagine he’d be one of us, you know, volunteering and all.”

  “Ailments?”

  “Oh, nothing I know a great deal about – only that the doctor visits regularly. Must be something pretty serious. I’ve a feeling his one real pleasure is this little outing each week.”

  “And what about that chap?”

  Reg saw the young man step down from the carriage and make his way down the platform.

  “His son, I believe.”

  Reg nodded. Topic closed, he thought, and began to tally up the number of passengers for the morning’s first service.

  “Seemed rather sullen, I thought,” Tim Waite offered.

  Reg was never one for prying into other people’s affairs. Still—

  “Sullen? Possibly. There’s three of them. You’ll get to see them all, once you’re a regular on the roster. Two women – sisters, I imagine.”

  Reg dug out his pocket watch.

  Enough of this Q&A, he thought.

  Then – a great blast of the locomotive’s steam whistle. So rich – full.

  A basso profundo, Reg thought, compared to the shrieks and shrill sounds of modern trains.

  He flicked his eyes up at the great railway clock that hung from the platform roof – yes, accurate to the very second.

  He turned to Waite – an important, even essential, part of the tradition was about to occur.

  “Shall we?” Reg said simply, as if what they were about to do was clearly obvious.

  He stood up, motioned Mr Waite to the door, then followed him out onto the platform, shutting the door to the stationmaster’s office behind them.

  Then he turned, inhaled deeply of the pungent smoky air, looked left towards the guard’s van, then right down the platform to where the great locomotive waited – steaming, smoking, a beast straining at the leash.

  As he took in the swirl of activity – the last passengers scurrying aboard, heavy old doors slamming loudly, chattering children crowded at compartment windows, faces pressed against the glass, he heard another great toot on the whistle and saw a hiss of steam billow from beneath the engine—

  And that familiar thrill of the imminent departure rushed through his veins and he thought to himself: This is what it’s all about!

  The living, breathing age of steam!

  2. All Aboard!

  Reg turned to Mr Waite, pleased to see that same excitement clearly visible on the younger man’s face.

  “Tell you what, Tim,” he said, moved suddenly to be on first-name terms, “why don’t you climb aboard, take this first run?”

  “Oh! Really?”

 
“Might not get a chance later. Go on. Archie will look after you.”

  “Archie?”

  “He’s the guard. Give you a chance to meet the rest of the crew. Rare treat to be pulled by a Seventy-Niner.”

  He watched Tim absorb this – not moving.

  “Chop-chop,” said Reg. “She’ll not wait for you!”

  Tim grinned and came alive: he climbed aboard and slammed the carriage door shut with that satisfying double clunk.

  Then he pulled down the window and peered out at Reg.

  “Appreciate it, Mr Syms!”

  Reg nodded, stepped back. He looked down the platform to the final carriage, where Archie stood waiting. A nod between them – ready to go.

  He watched as one of the volunteers strode alongside the train, making a final check that the doors were all shut, then blew his whistle – so loud that a group of watching children covered their ears – and waved his flag.

  With another great blast from the far end of the platform, and a whoosh of steam, the great engine began to move – slowly, inexorably.

  Looking forward, Reg saw the great white puffs created by the locomotive billow up to the matching grey-white sky.

  The train carriages started reluctantly moving, clunking and rattling.

  If he had been in the front of the platform, Reg knew they could watch the locomotive’s wheels, churning, turning – the ancient but steady mechanism hauling the line of carriages.

  Only half the seats taken, for this railway was – sad to say – largely a tourist attraction. A folly for fans. Fun for children and families and enthusiasts who wanted to experience something rare.

  And for Reg – and all who worked here – a hobby; though sometimes Reg felt like his time here … well … it was his life.

  As Reg watched Bernard’s carriage pull away – the dapper old man even giving him a small wave, adventure begun – he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, Mandeville’s son, in jeans and a fleece pullover, standing back at the Mercedes, watching the train depart.